


you were driving circles around me

by ithacas



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:31:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithacas/pseuds/ithacas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn's new house is perfect in every single way, except for the fact that his roommate is a nightmare. Oh, and he also happens to be a ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you were driving circles around me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt (http://verbyna.livejournal.com/84734.html?thread=347902#t347902) at the Halloween Fest

The house was built in 1872; Victorian apparently, with faded red brick and a big freshly painted blue door, the number 99 shiny and gold at its top. The garden was overgrown with weeds and blackberry bushes turned wild and there was a swing hanging from the apple tree just at the end, its rope frayed and grey but sturdy. It was perfect, in every sense of the word, and absolutely worth every penny Zayn had spent on it - except, as Harry pointed out, his roommate was a _fucking nightmare_.  
  
That wasn’t even the worst of it. He also happened to be a _ghost_.  
  
Harry saw him first; he was hungover after a party, so it was well within the others’ rights to think he was completely off his head, and he was up at an absurd hour, stalking the kitchen for breakfast ingredients. A crash of cutlery and broken plates woke the rest of them up and Louis took it upon himself to squeeze his hand and pull him back to bed when he started talking about disembodied Irish voices that disapproved of his choice of jam on toast.  
  
Liam was next; he swears to this day that he didn’t notice anything was wrong until he turned around from the armchair he was sitting on beside the fire and realised the person he was talking to was nowhere to be seen.  
  
But it was only when Louis was watching X Factor and stood up in a rage when one of his favourites was kicked out, only to feel a shiver run down his spine, that they started believing something was wrong. “Someone walked over my grave. That’s what me nan calls it.”  
  
“My house _isn’t_ haunted!”  
  
“Well, I’m not staying over again till it’s sorted, mate.” Harry’s the first one to crack, shuddering every time the lights turn out, and Louis follows soon after, leaving Zayn with a bucket full of salt, ‘to ward off demons or summat, I don’t know, just take it and don’t die!’. Liam lasts two more days, driven out of the house when he figures out that someone who isn’t Zayn downloaded Justin Bieber’s entire discography on his laptop.  
  
“We’re going to have to talk about this, you know. Whoever you are.” Zayn blows calmly over his steaming cup of tea, appreciating the quiet; he hasn’t had the house properly to himself ever since he moved in. _Ghosts aren’t all that bad_ , he thinks.  
  
There’s no answer.  
  
It goes on like this for awhile; things that he wants are there before he wants them, before he even thinks them. He falls asleep on the couch, telly turned on and wakes up warm under a blanket, curtains pulled back to greet the morning. The radio goes as loud as it can when his favourite song is playing and he’s never out of his favourite brand of tea, the water ready and boiled whenever he sleepwalks into the kitchen. On his birthday, he steps out of the shower to a message written in steam on his mirror and he’s careful to keep the N that signs it visible until it’s not.  
  
He doesn’t look for answers, more stumbles into them when he thinks about turning the attic into a studio. There’s nothing there but empty boxes and layers of dust, or so he thinks until he starts sorting through the mess. His fingers brush against the strings and he smiles at the guitar he pulls out, his hand trailing over the initials carved into it. _N.H._  
  
He recognises the opening notes of _I Wanna Hold Your Hand_ when he’s brushing his teeth and smiles something small in the mirror, as though he’s been waiting for something like this all along. The staircase creaks as he walks down but the music doesn’t stop and he stands,  leaning against the doorway for a moment, when he gets to the living room. He doesn’t blink in surprise when he sees a boy there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, fingers strumming over the guitar, humming along with the music. He doesn’t even take in his pale appearance, the way he can see the fire crackling behind him through translucent skin; he’s too mesmerised by his playing.  
  
The boy looks up, mid-song, and smiles, nodding at the floor next to him; Zayn doesn’t hesitate at all. Their voices mesh perfectly, quiet and soft against the guitar, and Zayn rests his head over his knees, hoping the song doesn’t end. But it does, because it has to, and the last strings of the guitar echo for just a little while longer.  
  
“Hey, Zayn,” the boy whispers with a crooked smile, bright and white and full.  
  
“Hey, Niall,” Zayn grins back, because of course he knows his name, he’s always known his name really.  
  
*  
  
It happened last year, just before Christmas, and the family decided to move out soon after that. There are whispers in the neighbourhood, gossiping grannies and men in suits who like to lament over a pint, and Zayn tries not to hear a word because he doesn't care, it doesn't matter. What matters is that Niall is here and he's not leaving and Zayn, at the base of it, doesn't want him to go. So he ignores the words ( _accident_ , _murder_ and that dreaded _s_ word that makes him wish he could clutch Niall's hand and hold tight).  
  
The others get used to it, bit by bit, fall into the rhythm that's become Niall and Zayn, so far that Louis has taken the ghost under his wing and uses him in all his schemes. It's more often than not that Harry wakes up to a loud 'boo!' from Niall hovering over his bed, Louis laughing himself silly on the floor, watching Harry's pale face go redder and redder as he realises what's going on.  
  
“Why are you here, Ni?” Liam asks one night, when they’re huddled under blankets in the garden, roasting anything but marshmallows on the fire. Niall is strumming his guitar again, pale fingers glowing in the dark and Zayn is leaning against the wall close to him, head pressed just where his shoulder should be. They both look up at Liam’s question and Zayn goes rigid until he hears Niall laugh, an insubstantial hand settling him down.  
  
“You don’t have to answer that, Niall,” Zayn mutters, backing down.  
  
“‘S alright. It’s a fair question.”  
  
“So...?” Louis prompts, fingers paused midway through Harry’s hair, his voice barely heard over the flames.  
  
“I dunno, really. There’s no murderer to go after, nothing to avenge, unless you count me best mate nicking me Playstation - which I do, actually. I wasn’t anyone important,” he scratches his nails over the guitar at that, dragging out a note, and shrugs, smiling. “I was just Niall.”  
  
“No unfinished business, then?” Harry’s voice is rough and quiet, his eyes flickering over to Zayn as he speaks. Zayn doesn’t miss the look, dread coiling in his stomach at Harry’s words. He turns to Niall, ready to push a different topic of conversation, but he’s looking at him, the fond, half-sad expression he wears not fading from his face. Zayn’s breath catches a bit and his mouth shuts of its own accord.  
  
“Not that I know of,” Niall whispers, frowning a little in Zayn’s direction, as though a thought’s struck him. “But I’ve never felt the need to leave...not yet, anyway.”  
  
Liam makes a noise at the back of his throat, thoughtful, and stands up, stretching his arms over his head. “Think I’m gonna head to bed. See you lads in the morning?”  
  
“We’re coming up, too,” Harry murmurs, sitting up and pulling a protesting Louis to his feet. He smiles at the other two that haven’t moved. “Please don’t feel the need to wake me up tomorrow, Nialler.”  
  
Niall lets out a laugh. “Nah, mate. Not tomorrow. G’night.”  
  
Harry nods and mock salutes in Niall’s direction, spinning the others towards the house as they half-heartedly wave. Zayn stays silent for a moment, watching his friends climb the staircase drunkenly, then turns to face Niall, as much of a determined look on his face as he can muster.  
  
“What’s up, then?”  
  
Niall doesn’t answer straight away; his hands flutter along the strings of his guitar, playing the opening notes of something Zayn recognises. _Ed Sheeran_. Zayn bites his lips, trying to rein in the smile.  
  
“Just thinking. Harry had a point.”  
  
“Harry rarely gets to the point.”  
  
Niall chuckles. “Fair play. But, unfinished business? Sounds about right.”  
  
“Does it?” Zayn doesn’t mean for his words to sound so angry. “You left the oven on, then, or something? Forgot to record _Strictly_?”  
  
“Probably all of those. Was never good with rememberin’ stuff.”  
  
“Ni -”  
  
He keeps playing, quiet and barely there, and it strikes Zayn how odd it is, that he can hold the guitar in his hands, feel solid against it, but turns into nothing but thin air when his fingers come to graze Zayn’s arm. He wonders what it would feel like, simply to press their hands together; soft, he thinks, even with the calluses dotting his skin. It almost hurts to think that.  
  
“D’you think it can be unfinished business if I never even started it? Before I...before I died, I mean. What if I started it now. And finished it now. D’you think that would work?”  
  
Zayn feels his voice break as he speaks. “I...Do you want to go, Niall?”  
  
Niall’s eyebrows knit together and there’s a perplexed half-smile there. “I think I do. But I don’t too. Weird, that, right?” He meets Zayn’s eyes and smiles properly, fingers leaving the guitar to card through Zayn’s hair; he can almost pretend to feel them.  
  
“I think I was supposed to meet you, y’know. Not just now. Before it happened. I think we were supposed to meet. Me dying made a mess o’ that, though. Always messing things up, me.”  
  
“Not always,” Zayn breathes, ghost fingers trailing across his forehead. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”  
  
“‘Unfinished business’, as my posh mate Harry says. Something felt right when you moved into my house, Malik.”  
  
“ _My_ house, you mean.”  
  
“Ours?”  
  
Zayn nods, because that sounds about right. The fire’s almost died, orange embers dancing along to the quiet notes of _Lego House_. “You’re leaving, aren’t you? Soon?”  
  
“Reckon so, yeah. There’s...something’s different. Dunno what but it is.”  
  
Zayn nods again, not trusting his voice. He sits up, determined to get as much of Niall as he can before whatever’s going to happen actually does. He blinks a little at first, squinting his eyes at the dying light. Niall’s not as pale now; he can’t count the bricks behind him and he could almost convince himself he’s solid. He hesitates, trying not to let his hopes get too high, but he reaches out before Niall can flinch back, his hand fitting over his cheek like it’s belongs there.  
  
“Well, that’s new,” Niall whispers, pressing on Zayn’s hand with his own.  
  
“I want to say ‘don’t go’ but...I don’t think it works like that.”  
  
“It’s been fun,” Niall shuffles closer, intertwining his other hand with Zayn’s, as though he can’t quite get enough of the sensation.  
  
“How do you finish ‘unfinished business’, then?”  
  
“Something like this, I s’pose.” Niall smiles wider, tilting his head closer to Zayn’s. “Make it up as we go.”  
  
Their heads bump softly together and Zayn tries not laugh, pushing his lips against Niall’s, swallowing the giggle there. He presses a kiss - one, two, three - feeling like a teenager, collecting as many as he can.  
  
“Zayn...”  
  
“No. Not yet, not yet, Ni.” Zayn’s hand slips behind Niall’s neck, keeping him still, holding him in place, his teeth locking Niall’s lower lip in his mouth.  
  
Another laugh from Niall, softer this time, quiet, more like a breath of air than a voice and Zayn screws up his face at that, because he knows, even if he doesn’t let Niall say it, he knows it’s coming to a close, whatever this is. He presses their foreheads together and refuses to open his eyes; just like he did when he was a kid, because nothing bad could happen if you just shut your eyes and refused to see it.  
  
“I’m glad you were my unfinished business.” Niall’s voice is hollow now, as though he’s at the end of a tunnel and Zayn can’t quite hear him. He feels ghost lips on his own, one last time, and then he’s holding onto thin air, his fingers empty.  
  
He stays like that all night, eyes shut tight and, in the morning, Harry grips him hard on the shoulders and brings him inside, pressing Niall’s guitar into his hands.


End file.
